


Extremes

by fincherly



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: M/M, Other, don't look at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fincherly/pseuds/fincherly
Summary: One was enough.





	Extremes

**Author's Note:**

> Just. Listen i dont make the rules here

They all knew the Azran were capable of incredible things, but this seemed to fall under the ‘never should have been discovered’ category.

Of course, anyone who knows anything about the Azran knows to be cautious with their relics. Desmond Sycamore was indeed the most esteemed Azran expert in the modern world, and he thought he learned enough to avoid any odd hijincks the ancient race might spring on him.

When he finally turned the last section of the Azran-made puzzle, he was met with a bright light and a violent shudder. He had definitely prepared himself for whatever solving this might have caused, but you could only prepare yourself so much for something you don’t expect.

And this was evident by the way that two separate pairs of the same eyes met.

Another ‘him’ was sitting around seven meters away from him, from the spot where he’d been thrown as a result of the… force. Both (both?) of them were silent for a good long moment, the quell broken only by a hushed “oh,” from Desmond. He felt… different, somehow. Like he’d lost something important. Like an image in a slightly different hue than usual.

His… other self, he supposed, seemed to be facing the same dilemma in himself. His eyes raked over Desmond, gaze more piercing than Desmond himself credited his own for being. He couldn’t place it; if they had been in the dark, he would’ve fancied they glowed. His hair was disheveled, and… He didn’t seem to have a shirt on.

“Well, this is interesting.” His other self’s voice had an edge to it; perhaps it was deeper? “…We… should most likely attend to the fact that our clothing has been split between us before dealing with anything else.” It took Desmond a moment to realize what he was referring to; he didn’t seem to have pants on. His boxers were still there, as he realized with relief, as well as his shoes. Apparently his pants were granted to his other self, along with his socks. He watched his doppelgänger rise, brush off his jeans (which he wears only when going out to a dig), then shot a pointed look at Desmond to urge him to get up and back to the Bostonious.

Desmond tried, but evidently the fall after splitting had done something terrible to his ankle judging by the shooting pain that greeted him. He fell again with a clipped cry, his head still somewhat spinning; he thought he was more practiced at greeting unexpected situations with a clear head. He had to, really, in order to survive in his line of work. Why the split rendered him dazed enough to not realize he had injured himself was a worrying thought.

His other self sighed a bit, then strode over to where Desmond had landed and, barely hesitating, scooped him up into his arms and began walking toward their airship.

“I-I beg your pardon?!” Desmond exclaimed, unable to think of a better response due to his mind’s muddled state.

“Do you honestly want to crawl your way over? I must say I consider myself intelligent, but if you’re so opposed to this, I might begin to question that.” Desmond looked at his twin’s glasses-bare eyes above him, shining with a condescending sort of amusement.

Huffing and crossing his arms, he hid his face in the other’s (the same’s) chest. Why was this one acting… different, than he? He hadn’t noticed a change, but he didn’t remember himself being this blunt and sarcastic. Was this a… spirit? No, he scolded himself. That would be absurd.

He still felt like Desmond Sycamore.

That thought made his brow furrow. He did indeed feel like Desmond Sycamore, in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time – on the Bostonious with Team Layton on that trip around the world, he found glimpses of the man he once was showing as he grew more familiar and affectionate with the three. He was uncomfortable with the notion; on multiple occasions, when it was obvious that Desmond had grown close to his ‘means to an end,’ Raymond had pulled him aside and warned him not to get close.

It was true. He wanted to be that, but the burn deep down in him pushed that away. He didn’t think of such things as feelings or regrets, only end goals and revenge. He shoved down any shred of emotion that bubbled up inside of him, and treated them like horrific diseases.

So why was it that he was having no trouble facing the emotions? These feelings of doubt or confusion – the part of him that was Jean Descole would cut those to pieces instantly, even while ‘being’ Desmond. Why did he not feel an urge to fight them?

“Raymond, get a guest room ready,” his other self declared. Desmond was startled out of his thoughts when he saw his butler’s astonished face. The shock didn’t last for long; Raymond learned not to question things while living with the red-eyed man.

“Of course, Master… Masters.” Raymond headed off remarkably calmly. In reality, he was almost frantic at the thought of there being two of them. One was already a handful, two might give him a few more grey hairs.

A door opened and he was carried into his room. While Desmond was rather embarrassed to be seen in a state like this, the shame couldn’t overshadow the relief of his own mattress meeting his back. He sighed heavily, eyes fluttering shut, the sharp pain in his ankle soothed to a dull throb. He was ready to fall asleep before he heard footsteps approaching him.

He barely opened his eyes before a pair of soft pajama pants were thrown his way. His reflexes, normally sharp and expertly honed, were significantly duller now judging by the incredibly delayed reaction. Cashmere met his face with a gentle force. He had forgotten he was totally pantsless.

Desmond pulled the pants off of his head, looking at his other self – he would have to name him. He couldn’t keep referring to him like that.

“Er… I don’t mean to sound thick, but… who exactly are you?”

“Existential questions of identity should be saved for those who have pants on.” The other got out his own pair of pajamas, a dark crimson silk, then began unbuckling his belt and trousers.

“Hey!” Desmond cried. “Have some decency, will you?” His scandalized gaze met his other’s, who looked at him as if he had grown two extra heads.

“…We are quite literally the same person. There are no parts of me you haven’t seen in the mirror.” While his other’s logic was sound, it still felt… weird. Uncomfortable. “Just turn around if it bothers you that much.”

After a stern look, Desmond turned over and faced the wall with a huff. This other self of his was… standoffish. Cold. He had never credited himself with that level of apathy before; he cared too much, really. As Jean Descole, he refused to care. That much was already concluded, but this person wasn’t… him, really. It seemed like he truly just… didn’t. Didn’t care, for one, but he barely showed any emotion at all. Sure, he was sarcastic, but it was as if he were a shell.

A broken husk of a man, his mind supplied. He remembered saying that. This person fit that description, to him. He was Descole when he said that, so…

He sat up and pulled the cashmere pants on without much hassle, then laid back down.

“Descole,” he tentatively said; it was almost a question.

“Hm?” The other didn’t seem to think much of it, replying to the name naturally.

Desmond was slightly taken aback. He recovered quickly, finally posing the question he had on his mind. “…Are you really – me?”

“I am as you as you are me. I think we’ve gathered that much.”

“Then why are you…”

“…Different?” Descole finished for him. “I confess I had been wondering the same thing; I hadn’t thought myself to be as much of a fool as you are. I felt almost no change – granted, there was that strange, inexplicable feeling of otherness, but I didn’t notice any significant damage done. I can’t fathom why you’re acting like a child.”

Desmond was willing to put aside the fact that Descole had insulted him to face the bigger matters. For now, at least. “I felt… much the same, actually. Other than the ‘I thought you were acting like a child’ bit, mind you. I myself couldn’t remember being as cold as you are now.”

“Perhaps,” Descole began, a clear challenge beginning in his tone, “the Azran decided to take the idiot out of me so I could work better. That seems like a logical conclusion.” A little laugh escaped him when he looked at Desmond’s petulant expression.

“Wha-“

“But that does beg the question,” Descole murmured, a serious tone taking hold, “of just how different we are. I’m assuming the device didn’t double the same person, as I had originally thought.” Looking at his own hands, Descole continued. “It seems like it took two separate traits from us. Do I really seem ‘cold’ to you?”

“Nearly zero degrees Kelvin, in my opinion.”

“And you, to me, seem like a child. We both didn’t notice a... an extreme shift, correct?” Desmond nodded. Descole sat on a chair by the bed, crossing his arms and legs.

Desmond’s mind was turning much quicker now that the daze had worn off. His other didn’t seem to feel anything, but he was having trouble not letting his emotions overcome him. He thought back to the train of thought he’d entertained earlier; Desmond Sycamore, he decided, was characterized by his compassion and kindness. The way he’d felt affection and a forming bond on the Bostonious on that trip was reminiscent of his ‘former’ self. Raymond noticed his similarity to who he once was by the warm smiles and familiarity he let slip. He was feeling much that same way now.  
  
Jean Descole, on the other hand – he had thought of him as the one who apathetic, the one who struck emotions down and scoffed at guilt or remorse. He didn’t feel. A monster, a shell – the ‘ideal’ of the classic villain. That seemed to fit the description of the man sitting across from him.

They were nearly polar opposites. Each only one half of the person who touched the stone.

Descole huffed, bringing Desmond out of his thoughts. Their eyes meeting, Descole voiced the question he found himself stuck on.

"What do we do now?"


End file.
